


No Concept of Mercy

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, F/M, Light BDSM, Pre-Tough Love, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she's tired of sneaking out of the tent she shares with Sera or Cassandra or Vivienne, she doesn't have to. She can just…start sharing with Bull. No one's going to do anything but make a lewd comment or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Concept of Mercy

Katrina is up to her neck in the freezing Enavuris when she decides she's done enough sneaking around to last a lifetime.

She doesn't know why she bothered to begin with. She and Bull never announced that they were doing what they're doing, but they didn't exactly hide it, either. Enough people have guessed at this point. What _other_ conclusion can be drawn, when one person is seen going into or coming out of the other's rooms at all hours of the day and night? And there's always someone around to see, no matter how many times she tries to time her leaving his room or him leaving hers.

So. If she's tired of sneaking out of the tent she shares with Sera or Cassandra or Vivienne, she doesn't have to. She can just…start sharing with Bull. No one's going to do anything but make a lewd comment or two.

It's not like they've never spent the night together. They do. With more frequency, recently, every time they get to stop and rest at Skyhold. She ends up too tired to climb the stairs to her quarters, or he falls asleep in her bed; they don't _plan_ it, but it happens.

Then she remembers that Bull plans everything, and her head swims trying to make sense of his actions.

She shakes her head, splashing around in the cold river to get rid of the worst of the day's dirt. There's no use trying to pick apart every little thing he does. She's learned by now that it only leads to headaches. It's not like he's ever skimped on aftercare; maybe he's decided that she needs something more, and this is it.

She dries off, pulls on clean clothes, and calls to the scout standing watch for her around the back of a boulder. The scout hurries promptly to her side. She shoulders her staff, and they hike back to camp in comfortable silence.

Resolved, she ducks into her tent to collect her blankets. Sera's already tucked into her bedroll, eyes closed; Kat moves softly to avoid waking her. She gets out the tent flap without incident and ties it shut, but when she straightens up, Blackwall's sitting by the fire watching her, one eyebrow raised.

Her face burns. Her ears, too. She hugs her blankets a little closer to her chest and sidles sideways until she can duck into Bull's tent—the flap, mercifully, is untied. She drops her blankets and hastily closes it behind her.

When she turns to face him, he grins. She half-wishes she could get used to all the shivery things that flash of his teeth does to her body.

"Someone saw you," he guesses.

"Ugh." Scowling, she bends to gather the dropped blankets. "If you're going to tease, I'll leave."

"You won't," he says, unperturbed. "Blackwall hasn't budged, so you'll have to walk right past him again."

She gives a low groan and presses her face to her hands. "You're awful."

He laughs. "Come down here. If I get up, my horns go right through the ceiling."

She can't help it; she laughs, too. She arranges her blankets in some semblance of order beside his, lays down her staff on the far side of the tent, and kneels down to sit neatly before him.

"Got tired of sneaking around?" he says, still smiling, and passes her his water skin.

She drinks deep. "They all know, anyway." She shrugs with one shoulder and looks up, catching his eye. It's not so hard to maintain eye contact anymore—not with him, anyway. Funny. Half the time, when they do what they do, her eyes are on the floor or on his feet in a show of respect, of submission, and in those moments she wants nothing so badly as she wants to look at him. When he grants her permission, she never wastes it.

"Seemed like a waste of time," she goes on. "Just laying there awake, waiting for the others to fall asleep."

"It wasn't a waste." His voice lowers. "You'd lay over there, winding yourself up. By the time you got _here_ …"

This smirk is different—predatory. There's not enough air in her lungs; she tries to subtly breathe deeper, but his eye catches on the way her mouth parts.

"I can go back, if you like." She tries to be airy, even shifts her weight as if to stand, but he reaches out to grasp the back of her neck. She automatically stills.

"I don't," he says. His grip is firm, but not tight. From a pocket, he takes a familiar length of black silk.

She meets the challenge in his gaze and smiles.

He takes her hair down out of the bun and braids it instead with deft fingers; he ties the silk when he's done, plunging her world into darkness. "Undress," he says, a quiet order in her ear.

She doesn't waste time, but she doesn't hurry, either. Her fingers slip a few of the buttons on her worn tunic, and then she pulls it over her head. Bull doesn't _gasp_ —such a sudden reaction is beneath him—but she fancies his next breath is the slightest bit harder. Dressed for sleep as she is, she's not wearing anything beneath the oversized tunic.

There is no elegant way to get out of leggings while sitting on the ground, so she gets carefully to her feet, stooped to mind the tent's sloped ceiling, and peels them slowly down her legs. She steps out of her smalls, too, and then she kneels again.

Bull is moving; she knows he's about to touch her right before his finger traces the blush just draining from her cheek. It lights again at his attention. He presses the finger to her lips, the signal for her to keep quiet.

Maybe everyone knows, but they don't _know_. They don't know the sound, the shape of the burning torch she carries inside her, and she doesn't want them to know. She nods against his finger.

His hand wraps around the back of her head again, but this time it's to pull her in for a deep, bruising kiss. She almost lets out a little hum of surprise—he doesn't often lead with that—but catches herself just in time. His scruff rasps across her chin, wet mouth parting hers, fingers tightening in her hair. For a moment, her hands flex uselessly against her thighs.

She's not bound. She can touch him. The worst he can do is tell her to stop.

She goes carefully. Her hand finds the bulk of his shoulder first. She lingers there, as if steadying herself for balance, but then she steels herself and reaches up to cup his cheek.

She's done as much, when sneaking out behind the tavern to meet him; she just doesn't usually do it here. Her hands are tied up more often than not, and she does _like_ that, obviously, or none of this would work at all—she likes it a _lot_ —but—

She likes the way he exhales low when her fingers touch him, too, the way his mouth softens on hers. She will let him direct her however he likes, but she's glad that he'll let her touch him, too.

Her hand drifts—down his neck, down his chest. By the time she fits her hand around his cock, he's stopped kissing her. Her mouth, anyway. He places a row of delicate kisses down the side of her neck. At the crook of her shoulder, she feels the grip of his teeth. Her fingers tighten; her back bows; the pad of his thumb traces softly around the bud of her erect nipple. She breathes hard through her nose and feels the first dim beat of her heart between her legs, but she keeps quiet.

The flutter of his chuckle against the hollow of her throat is good. His tongue flicks out to touch her skin. She gives his cock an experimental stroke, sliding his foreskin back against the ridge at the head. He swells in her grip; she feels the burst of his breath against her throat and shivers.

He bites her earlobe. "I want your mouth," he murmurs, directly in her ear. His thumb presses to her bottom lip, and she opens enough to taste, her tongue stroking up against his callouses. "Don't use your hands."

She'll need them to keep her balanced, anyway, especially with the blindfold on. He pulls her closer between his legs, his hands tugging at her hips, and then she hears—feels—him lean back. One hand on the back of her neck, he guides her down.

Her nose bumps his length. She parts her lips, drags her tongue up over his tight skin as he raises her again. She fits her mouth over the head, but she doesn't move—just strokes her tongue around, touching every bit of him between her lips—until he presses down on the back of her head.

Then she follows his lead, takes every inch of him that he asks into her mouth. He knows where her limit is; she doesn't worry that he'll hit the back of her throat by accident. She keeps her tongue pressed tight to the underside of his cock, keeps the suckling pressure of her mouth firm, until the head strokes the roof of her mouth and he pulls up on her hair, bringing her up again.

He pauses a moment when just the head is still in her mouth, and she laves it with her tongue: soft, short strokes up, lapping at the precum beaded there, little bursts of salt on her tongue. She hears his deep, slow breath, and then he guides her down again. If it weren't him, she'd think his fingers are hopelessly knotted in her braid, but he knows exactly where to dig in, exactly how to get free again.

He sets a moderate pace, pausing every few strokes to let her tongue work him with more freedom. The pulse between her legs is harder, heavier. She can hear him working to control his breathing; she can feel the tense line of muscle in the thigh beside her arm; it makes her slick with want, the mere knowing that she can even begin to fray at his nerves. The whole of her cunt aches for him to fill it instead.

She can be patient, so long as she has these little clues. The soft whistle of his hard exhale through his nose when she slips her tongue beneath his foreskin, the slightest twitch of his hips when he pushes past her lips and deeper—but just when his pace quickens, he pulls her off the head of his cock with a lewd pop. She licks her swollen lips, panting softly.

He leans forward; she feels him, his skin brushing hers as his lips part at her ear. "You must be suffering." She shivers and tries to twist away—the close rumble of his voice is almost too much, an extra sensation rolling over her skin that devours her last sentient thoughts—but he holds her fast, one hand still tight in her hair. The other slides between her thighs to cup her sex; with no preamble at all, he thrusts two broad fingers up into her slick cunt, the heel of his hand grinding against her clitoris.

She bites down hard on her lower lip, smothering the whine that rises in the back of her throat—helpless, carnal sound that it is. He chuckles, still right at her ear, and the entire left side of her body ripples with goosebumps. "Hands behind your back," he tells her, and she does it just as his tongue licks the shell of her ear. Her back arches; the hand in her hair helps her along. He lowers his head to her breast and sucks the nipple into his mouth, rough tongue running over and over the sensitive point, and all she can do is tremble in his grasp, the fingers of one hand so tight around the wrist of the other that she'll have bruises come morning.

He has no concept of mercy. She doesn't think poorly of him for it, not when his fingers are buried to the last knuckle inside her, not with his hand rocking against her exposed nerves, not with his teeth grazing her nipple. She's blind with her coming climax—if he took the blindfold off her, she doubts it would make a difference—but just as all her muscles are tightening to the point of release, he pulls his hand away.

It takes every ounce of experience she has not to cry out at the loss, not to demand he return to her at once. She stills, trembling with the force of her thwarted orgasm. He gives her nipple a last, soft kiss, and then his hand pulls free of her hair and he pulls her into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips.

She feels his hand between them, notching his cock at her opening, and then he reaches behind her back, prying her hands apart. He lifts them and loops her arms around behind his neck instead; she balances with forearms on his shoulders, her fingers clenched tight around one another. She knows to keep them there.

"I want to feel it when you come," he says, words soft with his lips moving against her ear.

It won't take much. Quivering, she sinks down onto his length until he's as deep as he can go. She can feel his breath against her shoulder where his teeth are marking her anew, rising and falling points of pain in a neat line toward her arm. His hands wrap around her hips to guide her movement. She rocks against him, never letting more than half his length slide out of her.

She's half-delirious now, chasing down the orgasm he denied her when he pulled his hand away, and he lets her, helping her quick pace with hands lifting and lowering her. She keeps her teeth tight on her bottom lip, her head thrown back; the way her neck strains reminds her not to speak, not to babble, not to beg the way she wants to, because canvas walls are thin and surely everyone can hear the wet slap of their bodies meeting, of him _filling_ her—

The instant she comes is such a relief that her teeth release her lip, but he's quick enough for both of them, catching her mouth with his and swallowing down the sharp whimper that rises up from her throat.

For a long moment after, he's still inside her, her breath and his harsh and mingling, and then he murmurs, "Up."

Her knees are sore, she realizes dreamily, but she moves anyway, sliding up and off his cock, hands unknotting from behind his neck. He repositions her, pressing down on the back of her neck until she's propped on her forearms, some of the weight off her knees, her ass in the air.

His hands mold back to her hips, and he slides into her with one long stroke.

Every thrust is deliberate. She can't believe he hasn't come yet—she knows he's been close at least twice—but his pace is sedate compared to her squirming on his lap. One finger runs up her spine until he reaches the bites on her shoulder, still wet from his mouth. He strokes these, his callouses sparking new little pinpoints of pain in the raw flesh. She closes her eyes behind the blindfold and strangles a moan before it can slip from her mouth.

His hand slides down her throat when it's done playing with her shoulder: pinching her nipples, scratching nails down the valley between her breasts, fingertips pausing at the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.

The harsher treatment has her fired up again. Her want is heavier this time, more urgent, and he knows; his hand slips down between her legs to tease the bud of nerves there. She closes her lips against the gasp of his name, a desperate plea. His hand tightens around her hip, every thrust harder than the last, and his fingers stroke her in time to every one, feather light compared to the strokes of his cock.

She rocks back against his thrusts, forward against his hand, and when at last the sensation overwhelms her, when her back arches and her hand reaches for his to keep it tight to her flesh, he follows her down, thrusting quick into her trembling cunt until he comes.

The tent seems too quiet right after, her breath and his too loud. He loosens the knot at the back of her head. The blindfold falls. She keeps her eyes shut against the remaining lantern in the corner while he shifts her, laying her down in the blankets. He holds his water skin to her mouth and she drinks, the fresh cold of it rousing her.

When she finally blinks her eyes open, he's lying beside her, one big hand on her hip, stroking her skin. She yawns wide. "How'd I do?" she asks drowsily.

He laughs as if she's startled him. She knows very well that's impossible. "You have to ask?"

She smiles. Every inch of her feels like it's melting into the ground, liquid and heavy. "Was good," she sighs, closing her eyes again. "Maker, you tire me out."

He slides the hand on her hip around to the small of her back and pulls her closer, and she wiggles just enough to help, resting her forehead against his chest. She feels the kiss he leaves on the crown of her head, soft as air, but she's already halfway to the Fade when he says, "Sleep, kadan."

She tries to stay awake—she hasn't heard that word before, thinks it might be important—but sleep pulls at her, too persistent to fight. In the morning, she only remembers dreams of his voice, half-formed syllables that don't sound like language at all.


End file.
